SEPTEMBER 2, 2026 – Friends and acquaintances who know where we live often ask us—particularly around the time of the Minnesota State Fair—how we in “the heights” adapt to traffic at fair time. Our response is that it’s not all that bad—though this year, while crossing the street at the end of our typically quiet block, I was nearly run over by a fair-goer motorist who blew a stop sign. (Hesitation on my part—“defensive walking”—saved the day . . . er, the rest of my life.) The fact of the matter is that unlike a rock concert or major league sports event, all the attendees don’t arrive or depart at the same time. Fair-goers come and go throughout each day of the 12-day extravaganza, which results in a relatively low impact on our normally quiet neighborhood.
With a notable exception, the only fair noise we hear is the applause emanating from the outdoor Grandstand shows and the four or five minutes of fireworks that are set off over the fairground at the conclusion of each day’s session. Back in the day, major noise was generated by the daily car races on the short track in front of the Grandstand. (“Vroom, Vroom, V-r-r-r-o-o-o-o-m!”)
The exceptional noise doesn’t come from the fair proper or from motor vehicles carrying people to and from the fair. The notable exception in the noise department comes from overhead, but only during the most crowded days—last Thursday and Friday and over the weekend. The source: aerial banner advertising.
All day, it seemed, two funky little aircraft flew round and round and round—mostly over the fairgrounds, but since our house is less than one-half mile from the northeast corners of the sprawling acreage, we found ourselves very nearly under the “great circle route” flown by the banner-towing aviators. When my daily walk took me south/southeast a mile to “Little Switzerland,” I remained under the monotonous engine noise of the two little aircraft. If I weren’t so interested in aviation, I would’ve found the constant drone annoying but seeing a little red and white plane flying at about the pace of a leisurely bike ride and towing an old-fashioned banner advertising the state’s biggest candy store, was a welcome throwback to “good ol’ days,” reminiscent of nostalgic illustrations in a children’s book. Where else could I find such entertainment for free?
Inevitably, I wondered how on earth—or rather, how from earth—that one-seater plane with a ½-horse power engine (judging by the speed) get airborne towing a banner big enough to wrap around the plane four and a half times (or so it seemed)? And how do plane and banner make it back to earth? Thankfully, I had all the information . . . on earth . . . available via my iPhone. “How does a banner-towing airplane take off and land?” I asked the Great Oz.
In an instant I was whisked off to YouTube, and at the top of the offerings was a video featuring an aerial marketing outfit—by the looks of it, a guy and several free-lance pilots—located in Westerly, RI. (Three years ago while visiting Connecticut, we took a day trip to Westerly, site of a wonderful beach facing Long Island Sound.) Very simply, the owner of the aerial ad banner company explained how the gig works, to-wit:
1. The tow plane takes off—without the banner.
2. Someone on the ground stretches out the banner on the airfield. A long rope is attached to a loop held off the ground by two poles standing a few yards apart.
3. The tow plane circles back, and while doing so, the pilot drops a grappling hook from the tail of the plane.
4. The pilot comes in low and slow enough—around 80 m.ph. to allow the grappling hook to snag the loop stretched between the poles.
5. If the snag works, the pilot opens the throttle and enters a steep climb (hoping against a stall, of course). If all goes according to plan, the banner leaves the ground and floats behind the tow plane. If the snag misses, the pilot climbs and circles back for another go.
Landing is tricky. If the banner touches the ground before it’s detached from the grappling hook, the resultant drag will crash the plane. So . . . over the drop area (close to the airfield), the banner is released and floats to the ground, while the plane circles back and lands in the normal course.
As it turns out, the Westerly guy flies all sorts of ad banner campaigns along the Connecticut shore all the way to Old Lyme, near our family’s place, Old Saybrook and Hammonasset State Park, site of our favorite beach. It’s a very small world after all.
Now that my curiosity about banner flying has been satisfied, I’d like to see a skywriter in operation—and learn how in the . . . sky . . . that’s accomplished. It’s a big world out there, and the sky’s the limit.
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© 2026 by Eric Nilsson
